To The Waters And The Wild part 12
1/26/09 03:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom: SpN
Author: roxy
Pairings Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 2090
"Dean-o! Look at you, filling out man, lookin' good. You're getting to be almost as good looking as me." Raph grinned and slapped Dean on the back, looking up at him from his five foot eight inches. He was togged out in hazmat suit, tight across his broad chest; he had a respirator slung around his neck. He winked at Dean, ignoring the blank stare he got in return and turned to Sam. "Hey Boss…this site? Sounds weird as shit. I'm not happy about this one." He fished a green and white bandana out of one of the coveralls deep pockets and tied it around his head, tossed another to Sam.
Sam covered his hair before he shook his head. "Yeah. It's a bad one. Real bad."
Dean turned from where he was filing receipts and stared at Sam. "What?"
Sam sighed. "It's just—kind of rough. Big clean-up, I'll tell you more when I get back." Dean looked frustrated; Sam could tell Dean knew he was telling him to stay put, stay safe—and he was well aware how much Dean hated it.
"Don’t worry dude, we'll be back soon. I got your brother's back, okay?" Raphael winked, shot him with thumb and forefinger and wheeled out the door. Sam looked back at Dean and felt a jolt—Dean was looking at Raph's back, lip lifted in a snarl, and his eyes…Sam blinked…Dean's eyes were green, just an average green, not the icy, eerily luminescent jade they'd seemed to be for a second.
Dean shoved the file in his hand into the drawer and slammed it shut. He turned a stubborn, pugnacious look on Sam that made his heart sink. Oh-oh.
"I'm going with. Now."
"Dean, I told you, soon, I'll take you soon—"
"Fuck that. Take me now. Mean it." His voice started to give out under the force he was using to push his words out. He grabbed his jacket from the back of Sam's chair. "Not. Staying." It came out in a harsh growl as his voice finally gave, his eyes were flashing and anger stained his cheeks red.
Sam blushed too, part of him pissed off that his brother refused to cooperate. This job was more than a charnel house of a crime scene--it was exactly the kind of shit he was trying to keep Dean away from and the fucking universe kept *throwing* this shit in his path like it *knew*. There was another part of him though….
Hell. There was a part of him that found Dean being this kind of aggressive pushed his fucked up buttons like mad—it was just damn--*hot*. Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Dean, look--"
Dean swept past him, snatched the bandana off his head and growled, too low for anyone but Sam to hear, "Don’t like the scarf," before leaving him in the doorway.
Cassandra looked up from her desk. "Danny's got an extra coverall in the van; Raph can ride in with him. 'Cause I don’t think your brother's going to want to share a ride with him…"
Sam glanced at her—he was kind of worried that she'd seen that look, but her expression just said, 'my boss is a total dork.' As usual.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Dean kept his eyes closed the whole way to the crime scene. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn’t want to see the anger Sam must be feeling at the way he'd rebelled, but he knew this about his brother--Sam had a tendency to not take the best care of himself, not the way he should. He missed small things, took risks that seemed not to be risks until you looked at the larger picture. Dean sighed. Sam was acting the way he thought Dean would…Dean shivered. The thought made his skin crawl for a moment. Yeah, well, Sam was wrong. It might have looked like he was taking wild risks, but Dean had always gotten as much intel as he could about a job before jumping in. Once they were traveling together again, that job had fallen to Sam--Sam was supposed to check the wind for them. In turn, his job was to see that Sam was covered.
Dad…Dad…was the one who'd taught him that. Scout out the situation first, but once you made a decision, commit to it. Jump in guns blazing. Talk or shoot—can't do both. He sniffed hard. Anyway, he was pretty sure it went something like that. Most important thing Dad taught him though, was to take care of Sam. He'd done that until it was impossible to do it, but now…he was back, ready to do his job. No one was taking his place at Sam's back, no one.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
They were parked in front of the apartment before Dean risked opening his eyes and, yeah, as he expected, Sam was glaring at him. When he noticed Dean was staring at him, his face softened, those cat-eyes lost their narrowed, pinched look. Sam grabbed his shoulder, and squeezed. "Hey. It's okay. But you can't blame me for wanting to protect you, right?"
Of course he understood that. They'd always tried to protect each other, ever since Sam could walk and talk, and hold a weapon. It was just that…he'd been doing it longer than Sam had. It was his right to watch out for Sam, as much as it was his job.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
The inside of the apartment smelled like Hell. Dean tired hard to cover his shock; the blood was *everywhere*, drying into black patterns over the floor, on the walls. There was another thick, cloying stink woven through it, an almost familiar, animal stench. It filled his nose, so heavy, he sneezed. For a moment he heard shrieks, screams…felt heat rising up under his feet, tasted ash filling his mouth, and then…ash gave way to a thick, sweet, coppery tang. He swallowed frantically to keep from drooling, sucked in his stomach to muffle its sudden moan of hunger. He wanted; he needed…Dean scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away saliva and rasping knuckles against his lips as hard as he could.
"Hey, hey—you going to hurl? Not in here buddy, not in here—you need to get out?"
And much as he hated to, he nodded, and let Raph lead him out into the hallway—he had to get away from that—that *smell*. Their paper-booted feet made swooshing noises as they shuffled down the hall, stopping when the air was clear of stink. Dean leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to control the tremors that shook him. He had no fucking clue what was wrong with him, why he'd reacted like…that.
"Hey." Raph's voice was soft, kind…concerned. "Deano. You okay, dude?" His hand was on Dean's arm, and he could feel the heat pouring out of it. Dean let Raph's scent cover the smell, instinctively reached up and grabbed the man's bicep, held on tight. He could feel the thick smooth roll of muscle. Raph was solid, hard. It was possible he could protect Sam…if it needed doing. He leaned forward, and Raph tucked his hand behind Dean's head. Dean drooped forward until his chin rested on Raph's shoulder easily, and he rubbed it on the thick muscle, rubbed until he could breathe again, until he smelled nothing but Raph, and cotton, and himself, and none of the other smell…and no hint of Sam.
He blinked when he realized what he was doing and tried to step back but Raph held his shoulders. He looked up into Dean's face with worried frown, shook him a little. "Better now?"
Dean nodded. "Ready. I'm. Okay now, really." He pushed away and smiled a little and Raph slapped him on the back.
"Good man."
When he came back in, Sam and Danny were starting to cleanup, the bleachy odor of cleaning solvents was strong…Raph adjusted Dean's , reached up and gave him a friendly slap to the back of the head. "Let's go—I'll show you what's what."
Dean took a long shaky breath and Sam glanced his way. Dean could read worry, and maybe something else in the way he stood, the way he held his head. Dean waved, and a thought, a memory, blinked into his mind—he gave Sam a thumbs up, and Sam laughed—he could hear it muffled by the disposable mask he wore. Dean smirked. It had been just the right thing to do to set Sam at ease. He'd remember that.
Dean turned to follow Raph, and shuddered. The smell had changed some since he'd run out. The apartment smelled of bleach, detergent, and lot less like food. Or rather, it smelt of rotten food and death, now. Underneath that was a sour, thick odor, that cloying, gamey, dark stench that had filled his nose and choked him when he'd first entered the apartment. He snorted, trying to clear his sinuses, get it out of his throat, but the scent was almost overpowering. It made him sneeze again, made his eyes water. It was thickest around where the bodies had lain, and he saw brindle and black bristles scattered across the congealing blood, most trapped in the largest pool of red. He wrinkled his nose at a scent he just noticed this close to the blood. The thing that had killed all these people had also pissed on them, and pissed somewhere in the apartment, he could smell urine over the odor of ruptured intestines. It made the smell of the blood much less important. He knew that odor….
Somewhere out there was a distinct threat to Sam and it took all his willpower not to tear out of the place and hunt it down, destroy it.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam worried a hangnail all the way back to the shop. He swore, this was--shit. The apartment, what happened in it—that was *just* the sort of thing he shouldn't be thinking about. What he should be doing, was tipping off the few hunters that lived in the city. This deal was nothing he was mentally equipped to handle anymore. Not the kind of thing he *did* anymore. Sure, sending a fledgling ghost on its way, that was nothing. Putting a simple calming spell over a murder scene…that was just a kindness for the people involved, no big deal. Anybody with a spell book, a few herbs, and good intentions could do that. He was no longer involved in—how had Dean put it when he'd burst back into his life six years ago—no longer in 'the family business'.
What they'd been called to deal with hadn't been just a horribly violent break-in. What had gone down in that apartment wasn't the work of a nutcase. He'd walked around the still visible outlines on the wooden floor, was able to plainly see signs of supernatural involvement—plain to him, anyway. The bodies might be gone but the claw marks on walls, at door and window frames, and on the floor where the bodies had been, plainly told a story….
He had no idea what sort of theory the police might have cobbled together concerning the events in that house, but it was pretty obvious what it was, to someone who *knew* what they were looking at. He'd bent and touched a finger to one of the deep, almost triangular grooves sliced into the floorboards and Dean had started—hissed like he'd been burned. Sam had looked up at him and wondered if Dean'd caught it too, understood, or remembered, what those claw marks through the blood meant.
There was no doubt, that family had been slaughtered by a werewolf. He'd leaned forward to sniff and under the sickly sweet rot smell of blood and other fluids, he'd barely been able to catch a faintly gamey, musky odor. In the tacky pools of blood, he'd seen a few stiff dark hairs; at first glance they'd looked liked paint brush bristles, but there was no mistaking what they were. The claw marks had probably been gouged into the floor when the beast had tried to scent-mark its food.
He felt like he was still in that place, still smelling death…maybe he should take another look, maybe find out more about--
No. He shook his head. No way. Maybe *nothing*. He'd pass it off to one of the hunters around and forget it. They'd clean up this mess without his help.
part 13
tbc
Fandom: SpN
Author: roxy
Pairings Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 2090
"Dean-o! Look at you, filling out man, lookin' good. You're getting to be almost as good looking as me." Raph grinned and slapped Dean on the back, looking up at him from his five foot eight inches. He was togged out in hazmat suit, tight across his broad chest; he had a respirator slung around his neck. He winked at Dean, ignoring the blank stare he got in return and turned to Sam. "Hey Boss…this site? Sounds weird as shit. I'm not happy about this one." He fished a green and white bandana out of one of the coveralls deep pockets and tied it around his head, tossed another to Sam.
Sam covered his hair before he shook his head. "Yeah. It's a bad one. Real bad."
Dean turned from where he was filing receipts and stared at Sam. "What?"
Sam sighed. "It's just—kind of rough. Big clean-up, I'll tell you more when I get back." Dean looked frustrated; Sam could tell Dean knew he was telling him to stay put, stay safe—and he was well aware how much Dean hated it.
"Don’t worry dude, we'll be back soon. I got your brother's back, okay?" Raphael winked, shot him with thumb and forefinger and wheeled out the door. Sam looked back at Dean and felt a jolt—Dean was looking at Raph's back, lip lifted in a snarl, and his eyes…Sam blinked…Dean's eyes were green, just an average green, not the icy, eerily luminescent jade they'd seemed to be for a second.
Dean shoved the file in his hand into the drawer and slammed it shut. He turned a stubborn, pugnacious look on Sam that made his heart sink. Oh-oh.
"I'm going with. Now."
"Dean, I told you, soon, I'll take you soon—"
"Fuck that. Take me now. Mean it." His voice started to give out under the force he was using to push his words out. He grabbed his jacket from the back of Sam's chair. "Not. Staying." It came out in a harsh growl as his voice finally gave, his eyes were flashing and anger stained his cheeks red.
Sam blushed too, part of him pissed off that his brother refused to cooperate. This job was more than a charnel house of a crime scene--it was exactly the kind of shit he was trying to keep Dean away from and the fucking universe kept *throwing* this shit in his path like it *knew*. There was another part of him though….
Hell. There was a part of him that found Dean being this kind of aggressive pushed his fucked up buttons like mad—it was just damn--*hot*. Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Dean, look--"
Dean swept past him, snatched the bandana off his head and growled, too low for anyone but Sam to hear, "Don’t like the scarf," before leaving him in the doorway.
Cassandra looked up from her desk. "Danny's got an extra coverall in the van; Raph can ride in with him. 'Cause I don’t think your brother's going to want to share a ride with him…"
Sam glanced at her—he was kind of worried that she'd seen that look, but her expression just said, 'my boss is a total dork.' As usual.
Dean kept his eyes closed the whole way to the crime scene. He didn't want to look at Sam, didn’t want to see the anger Sam must be feeling at the way he'd rebelled, but he knew this about his brother--Sam had a tendency to not take the best care of himself, not the way he should. He missed small things, took risks that seemed not to be risks until you looked at the larger picture. Dean sighed. Sam was acting the way he thought Dean would…Dean shivered. The thought made his skin crawl for a moment. Yeah, well, Sam was wrong. It might have looked like he was taking wild risks, but Dean had always gotten as much intel as he could about a job before jumping in. Once they were traveling together again, that job had fallen to Sam--Sam was supposed to check the wind for them. In turn, his job was to see that Sam was covered.
Dad…Dad…was the one who'd taught him that. Scout out the situation first, but once you made a decision, commit to it. Jump in guns blazing. Talk or shoot—can't do both. He sniffed hard. Anyway, he was pretty sure it went something like that. Most important thing Dad taught him though, was to take care of Sam. He'd done that until it was impossible to do it, but now…he was back, ready to do his job. No one was taking his place at Sam's back, no one.
They were parked in front of the apartment before Dean risked opening his eyes and, yeah, as he expected, Sam was glaring at him. When he noticed Dean was staring at him, his face softened, those cat-eyes lost their narrowed, pinched look. Sam grabbed his shoulder, and squeezed. "Hey. It's okay. But you can't blame me for wanting to protect you, right?"
Of course he understood that. They'd always tried to protect each other, ever since Sam could walk and talk, and hold a weapon. It was just that…he'd been doing it longer than Sam had. It was his right to watch out for Sam, as much as it was his job.
The inside of the apartment smelled like Hell. Dean tired hard to cover his shock; the blood was *everywhere*, drying into black patterns over the floor, on the walls. There was another thick, cloying stink woven through it, an almost familiar, animal stench. It filled his nose, so heavy, he sneezed. For a moment he heard shrieks, screams…felt heat rising up under his feet, tasted ash filling his mouth, and then…ash gave way to a thick, sweet, coppery tang. He swallowed frantically to keep from drooling, sucked in his stomach to muffle its sudden moan of hunger. He wanted; he needed…Dean scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away saliva and rasping knuckles against his lips as hard as he could.
"Hey, hey—you going to hurl? Not in here buddy, not in here—you need to get out?"
And much as he hated to, he nodded, and let Raph lead him out into the hallway—he had to get away from that—that *smell*. Their paper-booted feet made swooshing noises as they shuffled down the hall, stopping when the air was clear of stink. Dean leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to control the tremors that shook him. He had no fucking clue what was wrong with him, why he'd reacted like…that.
"Hey." Raph's voice was soft, kind…concerned. "Deano. You okay, dude?" His hand was on Dean's arm, and he could feel the heat pouring out of it. Dean let Raph's scent cover the smell, instinctively reached up and grabbed the man's bicep, held on tight. He could feel the thick smooth roll of muscle. Raph was solid, hard. It was possible he could protect Sam…if it needed doing. He leaned forward, and Raph tucked his hand behind Dean's head. Dean drooped forward until his chin rested on Raph's shoulder easily, and he rubbed it on the thick muscle, rubbed until he could breathe again, until he smelled nothing but Raph, and cotton, and himself, and none of the other smell…and no hint of Sam.
He blinked when he realized what he was doing and tried to step back but Raph held his shoulders. He looked up into Dean's face with worried frown, shook him a little. "Better now?"
Dean nodded. "Ready. I'm. Okay now, really." He pushed away and smiled a little and Raph slapped him on the back.
"Good man."
When he came back in, Sam and Danny were starting to cleanup, the bleachy odor of cleaning solvents was strong…Raph adjusted Dean's , reached up and gave him a friendly slap to the back of the head. "Let's go—I'll show you what's what."
Dean took a long shaky breath and Sam glanced his way. Dean could read worry, and maybe something else in the way he stood, the way he held his head. Dean waved, and a thought, a memory, blinked into his mind—he gave Sam a thumbs up, and Sam laughed—he could hear it muffled by the disposable mask he wore. Dean smirked. It had been just the right thing to do to set Sam at ease. He'd remember that.
Dean turned to follow Raph, and shuddered. The smell had changed some since he'd run out. The apartment smelled of bleach, detergent, and lot less like food. Or rather, it smelt of rotten food and death, now. Underneath that was a sour, thick odor, that cloying, gamey, dark stench that had filled his nose and choked him when he'd first entered the apartment. He snorted, trying to clear his sinuses, get it out of his throat, but the scent was almost overpowering. It made him sneeze again, made his eyes water. It was thickest around where the bodies had lain, and he saw brindle and black bristles scattered across the congealing blood, most trapped in the largest pool of red. He wrinkled his nose at a scent he just noticed this close to the blood. The thing that had killed all these people had also pissed on them, and pissed somewhere in the apartment, he could smell urine over the odor of ruptured intestines. It made the smell of the blood much less important. He knew that odor….
Somewhere out there was a distinct threat to Sam and it took all his willpower not to tear out of the place and hunt it down, destroy it.
Sam worried a hangnail all the way back to the shop. He swore, this was--shit. The apartment, what happened in it—that was *just* the sort of thing he shouldn't be thinking about. What he should be doing, was tipping off the few hunters that lived in the city. This deal was nothing he was mentally equipped to handle anymore. Not the kind of thing he *did* anymore. Sure, sending a fledgling ghost on its way, that was nothing. Putting a simple calming spell over a murder scene…that was just a kindness for the people involved, no big deal. Anybody with a spell book, a few herbs, and good intentions could do that. He was no longer involved in—how had Dean put it when he'd burst back into his life six years ago—no longer in 'the family business'.
What they'd been called to deal with hadn't been just a horribly violent break-in. What had gone down in that apartment wasn't the work of a nutcase. He'd walked around the still visible outlines on the wooden floor, was able to plainly see signs of supernatural involvement—plain to him, anyway. The bodies might be gone but the claw marks on walls, at door and window frames, and on the floor where the bodies had been, plainly told a story….
He had no idea what sort of theory the police might have cobbled together concerning the events in that house, but it was pretty obvious what it was, to someone who *knew* what they were looking at. He'd bent and touched a finger to one of the deep, almost triangular grooves sliced into the floorboards and Dean had started—hissed like he'd been burned. Sam had looked up at him and wondered if Dean'd caught it too, understood, or remembered, what those claw marks through the blood meant.
There was no doubt, that family had been slaughtered by a werewolf. He'd leaned forward to sniff and under the sickly sweet rot smell of blood and other fluids, he'd barely been able to catch a faintly gamey, musky odor. In the tacky pools of blood, he'd seen a few stiff dark hairs; at first glance they'd looked liked paint brush bristles, but there was no mistaking what they were. The claw marks had probably been gouged into the floor when the beast had tried to scent-mark its food.
He felt like he was still in that place, still smelling death…maybe he should take another look, maybe find out more about--
No. He shook his head. No way. Maybe *nothing*. He'd pass it off to one of the hunters around and forget it. They'd clean up this mess without his help.
part 13
tbc